I rule. Plain and simple, well, okay, that might be a stretch but this past weekend, I accomplished one of the most physically and mentally demanding activities one can engage in (next to soccer): of course, I'm talking about the Houston Marathon. I know, I know, the first question you are asking is "Why the hell would you want to run a marathon?" In all actuality, that's a pretty good question because, at the time, while I was running, I was wondering why the hell I was running it myself.
I guess it all started back in September, as is the norm; we spent a weekend at the lake and in a conversation fueled by many ounces of Bud Light, I proclaimed I could probably finish a marathon; as a matter of fact, I told my friends that I could probably finish the marathon around 3 and half hours; needless to say, my friends thought I was full of shit, because, well, at the time, I was a little inebriated. After signing up for the marathon, my whole inspiration while I was training was to prove to my friends, but also to myself, that I could finish the marathon. The training was a pain in the ass, but in the end, in some weird way, I wanted to see if running, and finishing, a marathon was all that it is cracked up to be.
What follows is my recollection of what happened during my run; well, as best as I can do because, shit, I was running a fucking marathon for chrissakes. I guess you can say this is literally, wait for it…..wait for it…..a running diary! Thank you, thank you very much, I'll be here all week.
Set-up:
Well, I wasn't the only jackass who was going to be running this thing, well, actually yeah I was, but my roommate Mike and his brother Jason, who I have dubbed "J-Sin", stemming from a nickname the tales of his bachelor party in
Anyway, as you can imagine, we didn't feel too great the next morning and got other shit done for the marathon, preparation, Eye of the Tiger, if you will. I would be remised to fail to mention that one of the greatest things about running a marathon is the wardrobe, it's like golf, the better your outfit; the better you are. Well, as you can imagine, I wanted to come up with something simple, yet elegant, so I thought what 3 words, other than "Hook "em Horns", better encapsulate me than "Straight Cash, Homie", thus it was determined I would spend my Saturday night creating a white T-shirt that simply said, "Straight Cash, Homie" because, I mean, what else is better than that? I rest my case.
Usually, I would keep a running time frame on what happened at exact times, but for sakes of this, screw it; I had no concept of time while I was out on the course. Bear with me.
Race Day
You know, one of the most overlooked pains in the ass things about running that no one seems to ever mention, well besides the fact that you are running a fucking marathon? Waking up at the ass crack of dawn to go run 26.2 miles, I'm serious, it sucks. I woke up on a Sunday morning at 5:30am to completely tear apart my body. What the hell was I thinking? Anyway, I get dressed and eat my bagel with peanut butter, slam 2 bottles of water (this would affect me later) and head out to the
a) woke up at 5:30am to run a marathon
b) had to pay $10 to park to run said marathon, and
c) WOKE UP AT 5:30am TO RUN A
It could have been worse, I guess: I could be a Nickelback fan from
Anyway, I finally make my way to the starting line at approximately 6:45am and start stretching and getting loose so I don't cause any more damage to my allsome physique. You know those ships you see in the movies where there is illegal smuggling and everyone is crammed shoulder to shoulder? Well, we basically were like that leading up to the gun. After saying a prayer (seriously) and blessing myself, I eagerly waited for the gun to go off, when it did I would unleash the fury, in other words, I would have to take a piss…but one thing happened: I couldn't get to the Porta-Potty in time. Shit, not only did I wake up at 5:30 to run a marathon but I also had to take a leak but couldn't because the race started; after contemplating pissing my pants and running with urine soaked shorts, I wisely told myself to hold it. Fuck, I haven't even run 10 feet, but I already felt like I was losing.
Miles 1-2
Precisely, at 6:59:14, my time had begun. How did I know this? Well, I am looking at a piece of paper that says that, so I am not pulling this out of my ass, which would be gross. Anyway, we head out of downtown
Miles 3-5
Still moving along pretty good, we are going through the White Oak neighborhood. One of the cooler things about running is seeing all the spectators who are cheering you on; really a cool experience. I run by
Miles 5-7
Now, we're heading through the Heights. We make a turn at Studewood and 11th and start back our trek across I-10; somehow I am feeling pretty good, front of the pack but no where near the Kenyans who are running. They either they were Kenyan or from Zamunda; I don't know. I didn't see Akeem around. Where Studewood turns Studemont there is an uphill bridge; that sucks. Still I make it, still moving along at a pretty good clip. I figure now I need to restock some electrolytes in my body; luckily for me, I have 5 bags of electrolyte jelly beans and figure when I hit the 8 Mile mark, I should eat some jellybeans. I love jellybeans, they pwn, so when I saw them at Academy and heard they taste like lemon lime Gatorade; I just had to get them.
Miles 8-10
Disappointed I did not see Eminem at the 8 Mile marker; I eat my jellybeans and start to slam more water and Gatorade. By now I am drenched in sweat, especially since I am wearing a stocking cap, a hoodie, and a long-sleeved shirt, in addition to my "Straight Cash, Homie" shirt, which no one has seen yet, just me. Anyway, we are making our way down the strip on Montrose where I pass several bars that I have gone to in the past. Luckily, I didn't have my wallet or I may have stopped at 1308 for a margarita. At mile 9, I pass over
Miles 10-11
Now, we've hit the Museum District, near
I don't know how many of you adhere to this rule, but it's a good rule to live by. At Mile 11, I was in the
Miles 11-13
Now, we're passing through the
Miles 13-16
Fuck. Alright, now I am starting to feel like butt-sex. I don't even know what that feel like, but if I could guess, that's what I'm guessing it feels like. Holy shit, I don't even remember much around these parts, we were cutting through the West University area, so the people are still friendly (read: rich white people) I don't have to take a piss anymore, but one thing I do have to do is get rid of my sweatshirt and other shirt, I am sweating like a whore in church. The worst part about this area? There is a huge (read: not really) bridge that passes along Westpark parallel to the Southwest Freeway that we had to scale. Shit, my legs are dying, yet I still manage to make it over. Turning from Westpark to the feeder of 59, I see some dude puke, I think to myself, "Haha". I am still churning along…to the Galleria we go.
Mile 16-18
This was probably my favorite park of the run. At 16, I pass by the Galleria and the
Let me break from the diary for a moment. My buddy Riv said a couple days before I ran (drinking at the Velvet Melvin Friday night) that he was going to meet me on the second half, somewhere around mile 15 or so, and run with my to be my support runner. Basically he was going to be my athletic supporter. Anyway, he said, "Yeah, I'm gonna run with you for the last half". I called bullshit on him and I told myself, I was going to make it my goal to beat him in the last half of the run even though I was over half-way done by the time he would start. Back to the blog
Anyway, running along, I spot Riv and Jenn on Post Oak, because wherever Riv is, Jenn is there too. I flag him down and Riv jumps in the race with me and starts running. Lucikly, Jenn was there too and I told her I would meet her at the finish line, so I gave her my hoodie, stocking cap, and long sleeve shirt. Straight Cash Homie had finally made his debut. Now, I am ready. We get to Mile 17 at San Felipe and Riv has been running with me for maybe, literally, 100 yards and, this is the best part, says "Alright, I'll see you at the finish line. I cant go." Of course, he's huffing and puffing like the fucking magic dragon I laughed to myself and said, alright.
That's right, he stopped running because he couldn't keep up with me after talking all this shit about him finishing with me without doing any training on his part; that knucklehead. It would later be revealed Riv told Mike, J-Sin, Jenn and everyone else that I was running too fast for him and if he would run with me, he would slow me down. That was allsome; it's funnier when you think about everything. So, I lost my running partner half a block into the latter leg of the run, but I would move on…on to Mile 18. Who needs Riv, I had the best running partners: The Rza, The Gza, Old Dirty Bastard, Inspectah Deck, Raekwon the Chef, U-God, Ghostface Killa, the Masta Killa, and the Method Man: The Wu Tang Clan. Diversify yo bonds….
Mile 18-20
Wu Tang Clan ain't nutin' to fuck with, and neither am I. I am still moving along at a pretty good clip, never mind that my feet are killing me; I have eaten 3 bags of jellybeans and slammed 4 cups of Gatorade and water at each pit stop. I am flying; how do I know? Well, for the first 18 miles of the run, I was ahead of the 3:30:00 pace group. I thought to myself, "Holy fuckin shit, I am fucking flying. Fuck." And, I probably said that exact same thing. I figured out around that point I would slow down a tad bit because I still had the last stretch coming up and wanted to save something for the end. After leaving San Felipe on 17 we headed to Tanglewood, Chimney Rock and Woodway.
Also, friendly people (read: older, rich white people). I have seen multiple people with Longhorns memorabilia and have flashed countless hook 'ems. Good times. You know why else I slowed down a bit? Think about it: Hot chicks. There was this girl who caught me around the end of 17 and was wearing tight, skimpy clothing, so what did I do? Yep, I tailed her for about 2 miles….hey, come on, like you would expect otherwise from me? She was pretty nails, too. I think if she saw the Straight Cash Homie shirt, it would have been a done deal, nevertheless, on to the last leg! By the way, no longer do I feel like butt sex, I feel like warm dog shit in the middle of August.
Mile 20-23
God fucking dammit! I feel like shit, I have hit the proverbial wall, I feel like ass-rape sex, really just a mix mash of every emotion I can think of. My legs are cramping, I passed the hot chick on Memorial, my feet are killing me, I passed the hot chick, my legs are killing me, I passed the hot chick, my feet are killing me, and I passed the hot chick. The shitty part about this leg was that we had to run through Memorial Park and up and down the hills; it blew goat ass. Seriously, I didn't think I could make it; it was literally just a mental fight now. Up the hill, down the hill, down the hill, up the hill, repeat; you don't really think about this when you are driving, but when you are running it fucking sucks. The only thing that got me through it was people shouting "Straight Cash Homie!!!"
Of course, every time they yelled it out loud. I smiled and acknowledged them. This was the worst leg of the run. Fucking Memorial Park. The saving grace was hearing the radio station DJ's broadcast along the street and shout out Straight Cash, Homie over the air, well, that and the high school kids giving me fist pumps because I was a homie.
Mile 24-26.2
The Homestretch. By this time I feel like shit, and that is the easiest way of saying it. I now know what it feels like to live in
Fucking perfect! At the 24.5 mile marker, there were people handing out FREE BEER! I shit you not, it was perfect. At first I thought maybe I was dizzy from running or something, but when I focused I saw the kegs and people drinking beer. Of course, I am a beer connoisseur so I had to grab one. Yeah, I killed a beer while running the Houston Marathon; how tits is that? Seriously. Did you expect that from me? Well, you probably did. I was back in the game, only 1 mile left. I got this fucker in the bag….step a side Butch, I'm 'bout to get medieval on this ass!
Mile 26.2
The fucking end. I made it, almost. Coming back into downtown, you can feel the excitement of the crowd cheering you on; it's a moment I will never forget. Especially since I was sober. For about the last ¼ of a mile I was in a dead sprint; fucking allsome. I passed about 15-20 people who were running and you could tell the crowd was yelling for me, I even heard and saw Riv and Jenn at the finish line yelling out my name. The PA announcer was cheering on the crowd and supporting the runners, and all of a sudden, through my Mp3 Player which was playing, Mama Said Knock You Out, I heard "Come on Straight Cash Homie!!!", I saw the final clock and shit myself, I couldn't believe what I had done in my time. I crossed the finish line, exhausted and ready to be shot by a pack of wild men. I did so without walking any portion of it and in a time of 3 hours, 45 minutes, and 22 seconds. Fuck you bitches (not you guys reading, you guys are cool), I told you I could do it, and I did. FACE!
Epilogue: Ow. I am hurting, it's Thursday afternoon and I still am hurting, but I did it. I have a t-shirt, a medal, and a beer stein as tokens of finishing the marathon. Was it worth it? Was it worth training for 4 months? Was it worth putting my body through torture? Was it worth getting a stress fracture on my foot (I'm only guessing)?
The answer: Yeah. I had a pretty good idea I could do just about anything I wanted if I tried. This just proved it. Funny life, lessons aren't supposed to be this grueling.
Here are my results:
Place Within Division: 75th out of 317
Place Within All Males: 802nd out of 3500+
Overall Place: 1004th out of 7000+
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